She Was Alive Inside

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 CHAPTER 4

She was alive inside.

Although she could not respond in conventional ways, I knew that something remained within her. She could still experience warmth, music, beauty, love, sunshine, and joy.  She had no significant pain. She had an abundance of love. She saw Van Gogh's paintings, felt the ocean breeze, placed her toes in the sand, and watched sunsets with her son. What more could I have wanted for her? Doctors had predicted that she would die years earlier. She lived approximately eight years longer than they expected. She even outlived my father. 

Caring for My Father 

My relationship with my father had been very different. When I was young, he could be emotionally and physically abusive. He was extremely narcissistic, and for many years we were not close. He was the last person I would have expected to support me while I cared for my mother. But as he grew older, he changed. When my mother became ill, he began helping with certain expenses. During the final years of his life, he became more compassionate. He told people he loved them. He gave hugs and kisses. He became, at last, the father I had always needed. He lived in El Centro, California. In 2020, he became ill and was initially misdiagnosed. Doctors there told him he had sepsis and that it had been treated, but he continued feeling unwell. 

I arranged medical transportation to Eisenhower Hospital. A CT scan revealed lymphoma. The doctors said he had approximately seven days to live. This happened during the COVID-19 pandemic, when I could not freely visit him in the hospital. We spoke through FaceTime. "I want to be home with my son," he said. "I want to go home with you. I don't want to go back to El Centro." "Absolutely, Dad," I told him. "You come here." An ambulance brought him to my house. As they wheeled him inside in a hospital bed, he looked around and said, "Well, this is where I'm going to die." He was not in pain. 

He began calling friends and asking to see them over FaceTime so that he could say goodbye. He also wanted to marry his girlfriend of thirty-eight years. I found a nondenominational minister who was also a notary and could handle the necessary paperwork. Three days before my father died, they were married in my home. My father also had another son whom he had not helped raise. I had remained in contact with my half brother throughout his life. I asked my father whether he would be willing to see him. He agreed. My half brother drove from Los Angeles. My father apologized for not being part of his life. At that point, I left the room so the two of them could talk privately. My father was able to achieve closure. He said goodbye to the people he loved and told them what was in his heart. 

Seven days after his diagnosis, he died in my home. The mortuary told me it would take approximately four hours before they could arrive. I sat beside him, held his hand, and rubbed his leg. But my mother was still on a strict schedule, and it was time to get her out of bed. My father was lying dead in the bedroom next door, but I did not want my mother to know. I entered her room with a smile. "Hi, honey. Good morning." I dressed her, prepared her, transferred her into her chair, and turned on Turner Classic Movies. Then I returned to my father and held his hand again. Months later, on a day when I sensed that my mother was strong enough, I told her. "Mom, Dad passed away." Her eyes widened in disbelief. My father had been eighty-eight and had seemed energetic enough to live well into his hundreds. Instead, he was gone within one week.   Because he was a Korean War veteran, the mortuary draped him in the American flag. When they placed him in the vehicle, they stood and saluted. The dignity and professionalism of that moment stayed with me. Although I had never shared the same bond with my father that I shared with my mother, his death affected me more than I expected. Afterward, I began sleeping between my mother's caregiving sessions. I kept cameras and audio monitors on her, and I could wake in an instant if she needed me. But whenever there was a quiet moment, I returned to bed. I was becoming profoundly exhausted. Still, my mother needed me, and she continued living for another three years.